


Brotherhood

by Alvitr



Series: Brotherhood [1]
Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Bonding, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Pre-Series, families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/Alvitr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Red Dwarf docks at Callisto, Rimmer gets an unexpected visitor: his oldest brother, John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood

**Author's Note:**

> I am almost finished with Part 3 of "Something for No One" but this demanded to be written.
> 
> Edit: Ha ha, it wasn't until after I posted this that I realized people outside of New England might not use "nips" to describe mini liquor bottles. Now you know.

Red Dwarf had docked at Callisto a few hours ago, and Dave Lister, like most of the ship’s crew, was busy preparing for planet leave. He’d just popped down to the shops on Q Deck to get a few basic essentials (namely, cigarettes and a selection of nips that he could hide about his person -- Callisto had insane blue law taxes that made buying alcohol on-moon ridiculously expensive) when he was stopped in the corridor by Petrovitch.

 

“Lister, just the man. Where’s your bunkmate? He’s not on the list for leave.”

 

“Rimmer?” Lister laughed. “He ain’t going. He got an exam in a week, says he’s taking the opportunity to study in peace.”

 

“Hm. Well, he has a visitor. You’re going back to your sleeping quarters before you leave, aren’t you? Could you tell him to come down to the docking level? I’ve really got to dash.” He looked annoyed. “Normally they’d just ask Holly to page him, but there was some kind of cock up with the docking procedures and he’s being rebooted.”

 

“Sure,” Lister said to Petrovitch’s retreating back. _A visitor? For Rimmer?_

 

He made his way back to their level, then down the hall, whistling as he went. When he entered their sleeping quarters, Rimmer was deep in the process of “studying” -- that is, carefully inking in his brand new “One Week Left” revision time table. Beyond an eyebrow twitch, Rimmer steadfastly ignored him. Lister upped the volume of his whistling a bit; it drove Rimmer smegging spare.

 

He began to methodically secret away his nips in his jacket, hat, and underpants (customs would never look there!) and stared at Rimmer’s back. His shoulders were tense and hunched and his left leg kept jiggling. Lister stopped whistling, and after a few seconds, the jiggling ceased. Then he started again, and once more -- _jiggle jiggle jiggle_ \-- and then, stopped again. Rimmer froze.

 

“Lister,” he said in a warning tone, “if you start whistling again, I will personally remove your tongue with a pair of needle-nosed pliers.”

 

Lister smiled. “All right, all right,” he said, placatingly. He popped the last tiny bottle of liquor inside the cuff of his trousers. “Oi, Petrovitch stopped me in the hallway.”

 

“Really? Was he arranging a time and place for your date tonight?”

 

“Ha smegging ha. No, he was sent to deliver a message to you, passed it on to me.”

 

“A message?” Rimmer finally turned around.

 

“Yeah, Holly’s being rebooted. I mean, that’s not the message, that’s the reason it needed to be delivered.

 

Rimmer looked smug and amused. “He must have loved that. The great Petrovitch, reduced to carrier pigeon.” He tapped his pen again his lips and smiled in satisfaction. “Well? What was the message?”

 

“Oh yeah. You have a visitor. He said to go the docking level, they’re waitin’ for you.”

 

Rimmer looked dumbfounded. “A visitor? Who --” Then he paused. “Smeg. It can’t be.” All at once his face fell.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

Rimmer had stood up. He pulled open a drawer and pulled out a rag and a jar of polish, then sat down on his bunk and began frantically shining his boots.

 

“Who d’you think it is?” Lister tried again.

 

“My smegging brother John is stationed on Callisto,” he muttered. He started on the other boot. “Why the smeg does he want to see me?”

 

Lister said nothing. He knew just enough about Rimmer’s family to not want to know more. It amazed and disturbed him that someone with as much family as Rimmer could have so much antipathy for them. He’d smegging dreamed of having brothers when he was a kid. Rimmer’s occasional stories about his childhood made him wonder if maybe he’d been better off without them.

 

Rimmer threw the rag down and bent over to peer in the mirror. He scowled at his reflection and tugged pointlessly at his hair, which, despite being thorough smoothed down as usual, was curling up at the ends. “Smeg,” he muttered. He looked at the clock, shook his head, and apparently giving up on his hair as a lost cause, headed out the door without a word.

 

* * *

 

Not long after, Lister was standing in line with a bunch of other eager planet leavers, waiting to get signed out and board the shuttle to Callisto. It was taking a smegging long time; whatever had caused the hiccup with Holly seemed to be affecting other computer systems as well.

 

“All right,” one of the blue-suited security guards called out, “It’s going to be about an hour. Sorry, folks. You might as well make yourselves comfortable until we’ve got this sorted out, and then form a queue again."

 

There was much grumbling and complaining as the crowd of people dispersed. Lister groaned; he wanted to crack into one of his nips but worried it would give him away. He began to wander around the docking level idly, looking for a place to wait. There were a few bars and cafes here for just this purpose. He found one that wasn’t too crowded, ordered a coffee and, sidling into a booth, selected a tiny bottle of vodka from his undershirt pocket and poured in a liberal dollop.

 

It was only then that he recognized a familiar voice in the booth next to him.

 

“- do you mean? Have you gone mad?”

 

Lister looked up and saw, in front of him, his bunkmate’s curly head, facing, luckily, away from him. Rimmer must have been pretty preoccupied not to notice him, he thought. Trying to be a bit subtle, he raised himself up and took a peek at the person sitting opposite Rimmer. He was a bit surprised at what he saw.

 

Based on the stories Rimmer had always told about his three brothers, Lister had imagined him as looking like some kind of action hero, with perfect hair, a jaunty smile, and a sparkling eyes. But John Rimmer looked very much like his younger brother. It was as though someone had taken the same mold of a face and then deliberately messed around with it until it was just slightly off. There was no one single feature that jumped out as different, but he seemed like a completely like a different person nonetheless. His hair was slightly darker, and also slightly less curly. He was taller than Rimmer, which was saying something, as Rimmer was quite tall.

 

That was the first surprising thing.

 

The second thing that surprised Lister was that John Rimmer, at least at this moment, looked like a bum.

 

His hair was unkempt; his face was unshaven. He had dark circles under his eyes. What Lister could see of his clothes over the top of the booth looked crumpled and unwashed. And he was smoking.

 

He was speaking now.

 

“Don’t you see? It’s all so stupid. I can’t keep playing this ridiculous game anymore.”

 

“You really have gone mad,” Rimmer said, sounding simultaneously gleeful and a little afraid. “Quit the Space Corps? What will mother and father say?”

 

“I’m not quitting. My contract is up and I’m not renewing it.”

 

“But why?”

 

“There’s a lot of reasons. I can’t really put it into words properly. I -- lately I’ve been thinking a lot. About the past …”

 

At that moment a herd of disappointed travellers walked by, speaking loudly, and Lister missed the new few parts of the conversation. When they retreated, John was still speaking.

 

“-- those boys. Do you remember? At Space Scouts Camp.”

 

“Yes,” Rimmer said, his tone icy. “I remember.”

 

“And I left you there.” There was a long pause. “You were only about seven years old. I didn’t do anything. I remember looking back and thinking, smeg, he’s so little. But I kept walking.”

 

“What’s the point of this?” Rimmer snapped.

 

“The point is … I was a terrible brother. I should have … protected you. Taken care of you. If anything, I did the exact opposite.”

 

Rimmer said nothing.

 

“I know it’s pointless now, but I wanted to apologize.”

 

“Why?” Rimmer said. His voice sounded distant.

 

John didn’t say anything at first, and then he said, “Because you deserve an apology.”

 

Rimmer coughed. Then he said, sounding somewhat strained, “You were hardly alone. Howard and Frank were the same way. Boys will be boys, and all that.” The last was said in a mocking, bitter tone.

 

“I can’t speak for them. But you know what it was like. The way they raised us. Father treated us all like one of his social experiments. Pavlov’s dog … survival of the fittest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he used us as examples in his smegging lectures.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “It messed us all up in different ways, but you bore the brunt of it, I suppose.”

 

The two were quiet for a bit, and then Rimmer said, “Why do you look like you’ve been sleeping for weeks in a trashbin, anyway?”

 

John laughed. “Is it that bad?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s a new medication I’m on. It gives me insomnia. Better than the alternative, though.”

 

“What’s the alternative?”

 

“Sleepwalking. It’s a side effect of … you know. The brain implant.”

 

“What, really?”

 

“Yes. My body’s been rejecting it. I don’t know if Howard and Frank are having the same problems -- I tried to ask them awhile ago, but they just changed the subject.”

 

“Couldn’t they just remove it?

 

“There is an operation, but it only has a 60% success rate. There’s a good chance it could leave me brain dead. So … it’s a last resort.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I know you always thought it was unfair that they wouldn’t pay for your implant, but really, you dodged a bullet, Arnie.”

 

“Hmph.” Rimmer didn’t sound convinced. “Have you told them yet?”

 

“No. I’m going to wait until I’ve moved and everything is set in stone before I do. You know how … persuasive they can be. I don’t want to get guilted into changing my mind.” His voice changed, becoming higher, pleading. “ _You know your father’s health is poor … he won’t be able to take this_ … and all that codswallop.”

 

“They do that to you, too?”

 

“You thought you were the only one? They do it to all of us. We’re like puppets on a string.”

 

“Yes, but at least the three of you have actually accomplished something,” Rimmer said. His voice was pained. “What on Io have they got to nag you all about?”

 

“That’s the thing, Arnie. There’s always something. It’s never, never enough. It wouldn’t matter if you became commander of the universe and married a supermodel, they’d never be smegging satisfied.”

 

“So it’s all useless then?”

 

“No … there’s more to life than all of this. There has to be. You have to find something worth living for besides their approval. That’s what I’m going to try to do … well, I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.” He laughed.

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Maybe,” John said, and for the first time sounded truly hesitant, “maybe once I’ve settled in … you could come and visit.”

 

Rimmer didn’t respond at first. Then, finally, he said, “Maybe.” He cleared his throat, and suddenly stood up. Lister shrank into his seat. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I should get back. I have an exam to study for.” He began to reach for his wallet.

 

“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” John said.

 

“Aren’t you throwing away your career to become a starving artist? You should probably hold onto what you’ve got.” Rimmer threw some money down on the table. “Good luck, I suppose.”

 

“Good luck to you too, Arnie.”

 

And with that, Rimmer turned and began to leave. Lister turned his head away, grabbing his dreads to try to hid them in the collar of his jacket, but Rimmer must have been too preoccupied to look around him, because he passed Lister’s table with no apparent recognition and left the cafe. Lister relaxed.

 

And then there was a shadow cast over him. He looked up to see John Rimmer, an unlit, fresh cigarette in his hand and a sort of knowing smile on his face. “Do you have a light? Mine’s not working properly.”

 

Wordlessly, Lister reached in his pocket and drew out his lighter, handing it to Rimmer’s brother. He took it and lit his cigarette, then handed it back.

 

“Did you have an entertaining fifteen minutes then?”

 

Lister was embarrassed. He shrugged. “I was just curious.”

 

“You know Arnie, I imagine.”

 

“Yeah. He’s my bunkmate,” he muttered.

 

John nodded and looked back at the entrance to the cafe, where Rimmer had disappeared through. “Do you think he’s got a chance?”

 

“Of what?” Lister asked.

 

“To do something meaningful. Learn how to become a complete person. That sort of thing.”

 

“No,” Lister said confidently.

 

“That’s harsh.” John looked down at his cigarette. “You know what my favorite memory of him is?”

 

Lister felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure why John was talking to him, and he wished he would leave.

 

“I was about … seventeen. So Arnie must have been around eleven or twelve. We were home for summer holidays. I had written … well, a story is too generous a word for it. It was a first attempt. I knew it was terrible and that I shouldn't be wasting my time on things like that, so I ripped it all up into pieces and threw it away. Then I went back to school for the term. A month or two later I received a parcel in the mail. From Arnie. Inside was my story.” He paused and took a long drag on his cigarette. “He’d fished it out of the trash and taped it all back together, scrap by scrap. It must have taken him ages.” There was a sad, nostalgic look to his face. “I never said thank you. Never even mentioned it. But I still have it. I read it over again a few weeks ago. It’s just as bad as I remember it.”

 

Lister didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine Arnold J. Rimmer, at least as he knew him today, going to that much trouble for anyone. How did someone change that much? Finally he said, “You ought to tell him all that.”

 

John smiled. “Maybe I will one day. Anyway,” and he gestured vaguely with his cigarette, “thanks for the light.” An announcement came over the tannoy: all travellers to Callisto should reform in a queue immediately. “I’ll be off then,” he said. They nodded goodbye awkwardly, and then John left; Lister waited a few moments before he headed off to get into line, not really wanting to be stuck in line with the man. He was still pretty embarrassed.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, when Lister returned from planet leave, he found Rimmer in their sleeping quarters, stretched out on his bunk, staring into space. He was balancing a freshly sharpened pencil between two fingers and revolving it slowly around and around.

 

“So,” Lister said conversationally, as he began to unpack. “What did your brother want after all?”

 

Rimmer looked startled and only just managed not to drop the pencil. “What?” he asked, blinking, and then processed Lister’s question. “Oh,” he said, scowling. He got up out of his bunk and walked over to his desk and sat down. “Smegging fool. He’s leaving the Space Corps and moving to Earth. To be … a _writer_.” He said this the way one might say that he'd joined the circus to become a clown.

 

“Oh,” Lister said. “That’s exciting.”

 

“Hmph,” Rimmer said, and opened up his astronavigation textbook. He stared at it with an expression of contempt. “Indeed. Exciting.” And with that he set about ignoring Lister in favor of his studies.

 

Lister was exhausted from planet leave, and so he kicked off his boots, climbed into his bunk, and promptly fell asleep. When he woke up again, it was the middle of the night and he needed a piss. The only light in the darkened sleeping quarters was the pale pinkish glow of Rimmer’s study lamp. Crawling down from the bunk, he saw that Rimmer had fallen asleep on his textbook, his head cushioned on a page of linear equations, with a little puddle of drool darkening a formula. As he walked, as quietly as he could, past the desk, he saw that Rimmer’s hand was resting, lax, against a page of notes. All around the margins -- and indeed overstepping the boundaries of them -- he had scrawled doodles: a jungle of strange flora, unusual creatures, dribbling waterfalls and still pools.

 

 _Do something meaningful_ , John’s voice echoed in his mind. _Learn how to become a complete person._

 

Maybe there was a chance after all.

 

 


End file.
